


The Menders

by FalliciousPuns



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman Begins (2005), Dark Knight (2008), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Doctors, Doctor/Patient, Doctors, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, muahahah this is me trying to be fluffy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 09:04:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6323305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalliciousPuns/pseuds/FalliciousPuns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Wayne's traumatic childhood inspires him to become a doctor in Gotham.  Through professional connections, he meets Dr. Jonathan Crane.<br/>Little do they know about the other's secrets as strange things begin to happen to Gotham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken Glass

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Bruce Wayne, Jonathan Crane, Alfred Pennyworth, Rachel Dawes, Thomas Wayne, Martha Wayne, Jim Gordon or any other of the Batman characters. I only lay claim to the original parts of the fic.

 

_“Hey Bruce, Mommy isn't feeling too well,” his father said, patting him on the back.  Bruce sighed unhappily.  “But I don't like the opera either, so can I be sick too?”_

_His father laughed.  “I like it just as much as you, but I still have to go have to go.  Some people from Daddy’s work are gonna be there but they’re very… intimidating, and I don't want to go alone,” he said, “You_ sure _you don't wanna come?” he pleaded._

_“Oh ok… But next time I wanna be sick!”_

_“Well, I'm pretty sure you don't want to have as high a temperature as your mother.”_

_Bruce rolled his eyes and went to go find his least favorite pair of shoes: the really shiny ones._

 

_\---_

 

_“I said gimme the wallet!” he shouted, jerking the gun into his dad's face.  Bruce drew back, clutching at his father’s jacket._

_“Easy, easy,” he said, slowly reaching into his jacket.  “Here, you can have-” his fingers slipped on the thick wallet and it fell to the floor.  His father reflexively jerked to try and catch it._

_The mugger’s eyes widened at the sudden movement, and suddenly all Bruce could see was a flash of light and then-_

Bang! Bang!

 

_He looked up from his father’s body.  The fleeing man was just a far off blur now.  He was crying._

_Bruce pressed his head to his father’s chest to check for a heartbeat or a breath, or_ anything, _just like his dad had told him to if ever someone was hurt.  There was a movement._

 

_The people carted his father into an ambulance while he was driven to the police station.  He met his mother there.  She was crying, but she smiled when Bruce walked in.  He wrapped her arms around him and hugged him against herself._

_“The doctors…” she whispered into his ear while choking back tears, “they think that Daddy’ll make it, Bruce,” she paused again, then let out a sob, “but he nearly didn't… oh Bruce I can't stand it!  What if I'd been there?  I could have helped…”_

_“He’ll be OK Mommy,” Bruce found himself saying.  Anything to stop his mother from crying._ Anything.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Bruce Wayne walked briskly down the hallway fast enough to send a ripple through his lab coat.  The floor, although scrubbed clean like every Monday morning, showed signs of wear: scuff marks, skids from trolley wheels, and even the occasional scorch mark.

He glanced down at the clipboard again, checking the room number.  Finding it, he pushed open the door to Operating Room 506.

The other surgeons were already operating on the small child.  

A quick check of the girl’s face revealed that the anesthetic was working.  

To his left, Bruce saw Jane, a fellow surgeon, use the medical clippers to snip off a connecting ligament.  

“You can go ahead and take the appendix out now, Meredith,” she said calmly to her assistant.  Meredith nodded as Bruce made his way into the disinfectant room, where he was sprayed down with a light aerosol.  He returned and walked quickly to the sink where he washed his hands and dried them on a sanitized towel before pulling on disposable gloves.

The girl’s appendix, he saw, was now safely in an airtight bag.  Meredith carried the clear sack out of the room.

“All yours, Mr. Wayne,” Jane said, removing her thin rubber gloves.  Her high heels made a rhythmic _tap tapping_ noise as she left the operating room.

Bruce moved closer to the operating table, reaching for the fine needle and clean thread.  

The girl breathed deeply.

“It's OK, sweetie,” Bruce found himself saying as he began the procedure.  “Mr. Wayne’ll fix you right up.  That's what we always do,” he continued, gently pulling the needle through.

The job was quick and easy, something that Bruce would not normally take pride in.  As he strode out of the room, peeling off his gloves, he was joined by Meredith.  She sipped her cup of steaming coffee.  

“You look so happy,” she said, the steam from the cup fogging up her large glasses.

Bruce Wayne nodded.  “We saved her.  She could have died from appendicitis, but thanks to us, she’ll live.”

Meredith grimaced as the burning coffee touched her tongue.  She coughed, then said, “You know Mr. Wayne, I think you’re gonna become one of Gotham’s best doctors,” and then she walked forward a little faster to catch up with Dr. Jane.

Bruce smiled.  Today was going to be a good day, he decided.  

 

The black lamborghini pulled up in front of Wayne Manor.  Bruce stepped out, his shined black shoes crunching in the gravel.  As he approached, he reached to knock the door out of habit, but before his knuckles could touch the hard wood, the door swung open.

“Good afternoon, Master Wayne,” Alfred smiled.  

Bruce’s grin widened.  “Hey, _Alfie_ ,” he said pointedly.

“Really Master Wayne, I much prefer ‘Alfred’-”

“And I much prefer ‘Bruce’,” said the young man, still grinning.

Alfred sighed and said nothing, but Bruce saw a bright twinkle in his eyes.

Bruce stepped in, pulling off his jacket and hanging it on the coat stand.  He took a deep breath in.  

“Alfred, have mom and dad already started eating?”

“I’m afraid so, Master Wayne,” said Alfred.  “Your father told your mother that you’d feel guilty if they had to eat a cold meal because of you.”

Bruce nodded.  “He knows,” he said.

 

Alfred followed Bruce into the kitchen, where his parents were enjoying lasagna at the counter.  The Waynes didn’t often use the long dining table when there were no guests to entertain, so they usually sat in the kitchen and talked with Alfred as he prepared each new course.

“Hello Bruce,” his mother said, giving him a happy smile.  

“Hi, Mom,” he said back, pulling up a seat next to his father.

“How was work today?” Thomas Wayne asked.  

“Good.  One patient had appendicitis, and her operation couldn’t have gone smoother,” Bruce said, noticing that his father’s wheeze wasn’t so bad today.  “We had one man in for heart surgery, but then for the rest of the day I was stitching and disinfecting wounds.  Crime’s still sky high in Gotham, even after all this time, dad.”

There was a long silence.  

“I think people would feel better if you came out and spoke more,” Bruce stated tentatively.  

His father laughed, which then turned into a hacking cough.  “I suppose so, Bruce.  But ever since the...accident, I’ve wanted to spend more time with you and Martha.  Anyway, I’m still making sure that Wayne Enterprises sticks on the right track.”

Bruce shrugged.  “I see your point, as always, but that doesn’t mean I have to agree with it,” he said, sticking out his tongue in a childish gesture.

His father snorted.  

“Speaking of public events, we’ve all been invited to a party over at Marie’s house, and since her husband is in charge of the Gotham medical department, I thought it would be interesting to go talk to other doctors, don’t you think Bruce?”

Bruce shrugged, unable to say anything with a mouthful of lasagna.  Over by the oven top, Alfred pursed his lips, trying not to laugh.

When he finally managed to swallow, Bruce said, “As long as you both come with me.  I don’t really know any of the doctors from the other hospitals, and since it’s going to be ‘fancy’,” he sketched air quotes, “I doubt any other doctors working in the East End will be coming.”  

“Aww, you’ll be fine Bruce,” Martha said, rubbing her son’s shoulder.  “But you’re father and I will come,” she said, looking at her husband, “Right Thomas?” she asked pointedly.

“I guess, just this once,” he teased.

  
  


Alfred, dressed in his usual formal attire sat in the front seat of the limousine.  He had absolutely refused to let Bruce drive, but that was understandable as Bruce often forgot that in America there were speed limits and speeding tickets.  He and his parents were sitting in the back.  Thankfully, today was another of Thomas’ good days.  

They were being driven to another house outside of Gotham, that, while being several times smaller than Wayne Manor, was still enormous.  The Waynes spotted the house from nearly a mile away, as it was surrounded on all sides by lush fields.

“Oh look,” Martha said, peeking out the window.  “They have the lights on.  The reflection must look wonderful in that pond of theirs.”

Bruce and his father shared a knowing glance, knowing that she either knew that their host’s family had a pond because she had been there before, or that she had seen it on one of her helicopter rides.

There came a point where the road faded into a gravel drive.  “It would seem as though we’ve arrived,” stated Alfred as he pulled around the circular driveway.  A valet came and Alfred rolled down his window.

“Sir, we’re using that field over there,” he pointed, “to park everyone’s cars.”

From the back, Thomas said to everyone else, “Well it looks like our cue to get out.”  

They all got out.  As he was leaving, Thomas said to Alfred, “Thanks again.  We’ll see you inside,” at which Alfred grinned and drove off to the field at which the valet had pointed to.

 

The Wayne family walked up the stairs and through the open door that flooded the driveway with light.  

“Ah!  Mr. and Mrs. Wayne!  How absolutely wonderful to see you!” a middle-aged woman said, coming forward to greet them.  “Oh!” she exclaimed, seeing Bruce.  “Bruce!  Oh how you’ve grown.  Do you remember me?  Last time I saw you, you were this tall,” she laughed, waving her hand to the level of Bruce’s waist.  Bruce smiled awkwardly.

“Oh!  I'm being so rude,” she said, “do come in, there are loads of people waiting to meet you.”  

She stepped aside and the Waynes entered the building.

A sea of party guests greeted them, all wearing lavish gowns and fancy suits.  Bruce even spotted one or two dinner jackets.  They mingled around, talking to each other.  

Bruce shook his head.  What could be so interesting that they could talk about for hours?  He made a few greetings to people he knew, like the head of security and the head of the medical department, but very shortly he became bored.  

Every few minutes, some random attendee would come up to him and usually kick off a conversation with something along the lines of, “So you’re Bruce Wayne?” Followed by a ridiculous complement, to which he would reply, “You're too kind.”  After a few moments of awkward silence, the suck-up would make up some excuse to leave the conversation and sidle back to their friends.

After about an hour of standing around alone, watching the party from the sidelines, Bruce was bored.  He'd already tried every single type of food at the buffet, and there was nothing left to do.

He waved down a waiter.  "Do you mind pointing me in the direction of the gardens?” he asked.

The waiter obliged, gesturing out a side door.  “It's out that way, and through the second door on your left.  The lights should be on outside as well.”  The man smiled.  “Enjoy the party, Mr. Wayne.”

He grabbed a flute of champagne on his way out.

A few moments later, Bruce pushed open the heavy wooden door open and stepped lightly into the open air.  He breathed in deeply, and when he finally released the breath iat came out as a lonely sigh.  Sure, he didn’t want to talk to any of the wealthy party guests here, or the high end doctors, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to talk to _anyone_.  

He decided to make one tour of the garden, then see if his parents knew anyone that didn’t just think of him as a rich, playboy son of a billionaire.  He wished Rachel were here.  He paced slowly up and down the garden, unwilling to complete a circuit.

It was a long path, around miniature herb gardens, past heaps of tiny flowers and around a bed of roses.  It was a loop though, and eventually Bruce got to the point where he had started.

Sighing again at the inevitability of it all, he downed his champagne in a quick gulp and walked back to the mahogany door and pushed it open.

As he made his way back to a more populated room, noise flooded his ears with laughter, and constant chattering.  He scanned the crowd for his father and found him standing, talking to the director of a private hospital.  Not wanting to interrupt, he turned around to try and find his mother instead.

As he spun around, the world slowed down until it was a golden, shimmering blur.  He felt as if he were a child again, spinning in his parents arms.

His glass smashed into a waiter’s tray, shattering into needle-sharp shards.  

Bruce’s arm kept going, pushed forward by momentum and crashed into the outstretched arm of another man.

The waiter’s tray spun out of his hands, sending a cascade of champagne flutes to break against the marble floor.  Someone screamed.

The main hall fell silent. Everyone turned at the jarring sound of splintering glass.  There were a few moments of awkward stares and looks, during which Bruce hurriedly stepped aside to allow a waitress with a dustpan and broom to sweep away the pieces.  

Bruce turned to the second man.  “Sorry ‘bout that, I didn't mean-”

He stopped.  The man was examining his hand, frowning.  He was bleeding.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Bruce.  “I'm sorry,” he said, raising his hand to clap against his forehead.

“Don't-” the man warned as his hand darted out to grab Bruce's wrist as it flew up.  Blood dripped onto his cream-white cuffs.  “-rip your head open,” he finished.  With his other hand, the man tapped Bruce's shattered glass, that he had still been holding, with a fingernail.  

“Oh,” Bruce said, realizing that he had been about to rake a broken glass over his head.

The man nodded, releasing Bruce's wrist.  “That kind of self-harm isn't good for you,” he said, flashing him a curt smile.  He prised what was left of the champagne flute easily from Bruce’s fingers and set it down on a nearby table in a fluid motion.

“Your hand,” Bruce pointed out.  “I hit it with my glass.”

The man nodded again, holding it up.  He walked a few steps away from the mess and Bruce followed him.  The stranger flexed his hand, making sure each of his fingers could move.

“I'm a doctor, I can make sure that no glass-”

The stranger sighed and rolled his eyes.  “You're also Bruce Wayne, which means I'll be giving you my hand whether I like it or not,” he said, extending it coldly.  He looked around at the other guests as if he was annoyed that they’d see.

Bruce took it gently, examining the back of the other man’s hand.  He removed a pair of tweezers from a pocket and removed several small shards of glass from the man’s hand.

The stranger didn’t wince.

Once he was sure there were no more, Bruce examined the rest of his hand to make sure there were no other cuts.  He discovered nothing other than that the man had long, slender, pale fingers.

While he did this, he asked questions to break the ice and the awkward silence.

“You're a doctor too, aren't you?” he asked, noticing how the other man didn’t flinch or look away from his injured hand.

“Yes, although not the kind you're thinking of.”  There was a kind of smirk that Bruce could hear in the way the words rolled off the other man’s tongue.

“Hmm?” Bruce asked distractedly.

“I work at Arkham,” the man said.

Bruce looked up, surprised and intrigued.  “You work in the Narrows- In the East End, just like me.”  Bruce narrowed his eyes.  Suddenly the man’s appearance popped out at him.  The dark hair, the glasses, the blue eyes.  He seemed vaguely familiar.  Where had he seen him before?

The dark haired man nodded.  “The only place for Gotham’s criminally insane,” he said.  

Bruce laughed.  “What did you say your name was?” he tried to ask innocently.

“I didn't,” the man said, pushing his glasses further up his nose, smiling gently.  “But I'll spare you the trouble of snooping around,” he said, tilting his head.

Bruce waited.  

“I'm Dr. Jonathan Crane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not tagging any relationships in this fic, but that doesn't mean there aren't any.  
> ;)


	2. Arkham and East End Public

“I remember reading about you in the news!” Bruce exclaimed, trying not to sound as excited as he was.  “You're the director and head psychologist at the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane,” he said, reciting what he'd read in the _Gazette_.

Crane smiled.  “Yes,” he replied simply.

Bruce bit his lip.  “May I ask why you work at Arkham?  Obviously you could have had any number of jobs in the upper city of you’d wanted,” he said, remembering how the article had praised Crane for his brilliant intellect and outstanding record.

Crane’s lips tightened.  “The psychiatric hospitals in the diamond do not house criminals.  They house rich, old, eccentric cousins or uncles.  Only down in the lower city do you find the truly insane, the ones that are truly afraid.”  He bit his lip.  “And you, Bruce Wayne, what made you choose to work at East End Public Hospital?” Dr. Crane asked.

Bruce grimaced, unprepared for the question.  “When my father had his…accident, that's where they took him.  He survived, but he was one of the lucky ones.  Even so, he still has trouble breathing sometimes.”  Bruce paused, trying to get his words in the right order before he said them.  “He had to stop working as a doctor.  And since I was there when he…when he got shot…I didn't want anyone else to suffer- to go through what he did.  Similar to what you said, I don't want to tend to people who have cancer.  I want to save people who've been shot.”

There was a long pause.

“I mean, obviously I want to cure cancer,” Bruce amended hurriedly, “but right now the biggest problem’s crime.”

Jonathan Crane smiled.  “Yes, crime _is_ the biggest problem.”  Crane trailed off as his  gaze drifted to a point behind Bruce’s shoulder and his jaw clenched ever so slightly.

He licked his lips.  “Hello, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce turned to see his father approaching.  

“Good evening, Dr. Crane,” he said shortly.  Bruce was startled at the coldness of his voice.  He thought Crane could sense it too, by the way his icy blue eyes hardened.

"Glad you could come," he said, in a tone that suggested he meant the opposite.

“I almost couldn’t make it.  I’ve had to cut down the number of staff members due to the lack of…” he paused, “funding,” he smiled glacially, pronouncing the last word clearly.

“Ah well,” Thomas Wayne said, “it’s sad to see that there isn’t enough money to go around.”  The words seemed weary and sympathetic, but to Bruce they sounded faintly laced with sarcasm.

“Have the two of you met before?” he asked, turning to face Dr. Crane.  

Crane nodded.

There was an awkward silence as Bruce waited for Crane to elaborate.

He did not.

His father tapped him on the shoulder, then said politely to Crane, “May I borrow Bruce for a moment?”

Crane shrugged.  “Go ahead,” he said, spreading his spindly arms.

Thomas pulled his son aside and paced with him back to where his mother was sitting at a small table.  The chandeliers above cast the whole room in a golden glow, like a contained sunset.

Bruce looked back to see if Crane would wait for him, only to see that the psychiatrist had melted into the crowd.

“Dad, what’s with Dr. Crane that you don’t like?” Bruce asked in a low voice.

His father pulled a tight smile as he glanced from side to side.  “I lobbied against Arkham funding because it seems like a very corrupt institution.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

His father drew a breath and let it out in one long wheeze.  “Last year we gave them all the money they asked for.”  They reached Martha’s table, and Thomas sat down heavily.  He motioned for Bruce to join them, but his son declined with a wave of the hand.  “Despite that,” he continued, “their facilities have not improved, they began having major problems with their plumbing, and on top of that, several criminals that should have gone straight to prison have made successful insanity pleas.”

Bruce shook his head.  “Maybe they really do have mental disorders, Dad.  As for the facilities, well… I’m not sure, but maybe it's the cost of simple incarceration for more people.”  He frowned, itching at his jawline.

His father rubbed his temples.  “It’s a lot more complicated than that.  For nearly all the criminals, their mental disorders only came up very recently, among other ‘coincidences’.”

Bruce shrugged as if saying, _well what can you do._

Thomas chuckled.  “You should talk to Rachel.  I think she just finished a case on lower-city corruption.  Actually,” he leaned forward, and Bruce had to bend over to hear what his father whispered next, “she’s the one who tipped me off and got me thinking about corruption in Arkham in the first place.”  

Bruce blinked.   _Rachel?_  “Why didn’t she tell me?” he asked in a low voice, pretending to be offended.

Suddenly, Thomas pulled back and looked up.  “Back again Dr. Crane?” he said with false amusement in his voice.  

Bruce turned.

“It seems so,” Crane said, with a quirk in his lips.  “I was just passing by to get another drink.”

Bruce shot a look at his father like a teenager asking to go out with his friends.  “I’ll get one too.”

Thomas slapped Bruce on the shoulder.  “I’ll let you go, just this once,” he teased.

As soon as Bruce turned to Crane, the latter said, “I suppose you’ll walk with me.”  He seemed annoyed, but made no attempt to stop the the other man.

After a few paces, their steps fell in sync.  Bruce couldn’t help but grinning.

“One question,” the psychiatrist asked.  “Of all the people at this party, why choose to talk to me?”

“Hah.” It came out as a sort of laugh.  “It wasn’t my choice,” Bruce said.  “I broke my glass and you happened to be there, that’s all.”

“But why continue the conversation after that?” Crane asked as they reached the  drinks table.

Bruce shrugged.  “Honestly I didn’t want to come to this party.  I thought it would be a bunch of upper class snobs who think they know about medicine, but don’t know a _thing_ about how much Gotham needs help.”  

A few heads turned when they heard the words ‘upper class snobs’.  Crane chuckled quietly.

“So I suppose,” Bruce said, “I was intrigued when I discovered that you worked at Arkham.  You know what it’s like in the East End.  These people don’t.”

Crane nodded.  “Most people aren’t as… appreciative of that,” he said ladling blood red punch into two glasses.  He offered one to Bruce, who took it with thanks.  

“It seems you wouldn’t be terrible company,” Crane remarked after a sip. His lips put roses to shame.

Bruce’s face fell.  Was Crane just trying to suck up to him like everyone else?  

“Especially with coordinating between Arkham and East End Public.  Too many people are going to EEP for mental help and attempted suicide and, no offence,” he said nonchalantly, “but most of the folks over at EEP don’t know how to deal with that sort of thing.”

Bruce’s eyes lit up and he nodded determinedly as he slurped his drink.

Crane lowered his glass, his lips stained a bright red, and smiled.  “To future collaborations, Dr. Wayne,” he said grinning wryly.

“Please.  Just Bruce is fine,” the other man insisted.

“Jonathan.” Crane said, extending a hand.

Bruce shook it.

Jonathan’s phone rang.  He pulled it out, apologizing to Bruce.  “Yes?” he said curtly.  There was a pause.  “What?”  Another pause.  “No, don’t give him anything until I arrive.  Record everything that happens.”  Jonathan rolled his eyes.  “I’ll be there when I pull up, now make sure he doesn’t hurt himself by accident,” he finished, licking his lips.  He ended the call and dropped his phone into a pocket.  

Jonathan took a long breath.  “Here, take this,” he said, pulling out a business card.  “The number on the back is the work phone if you have questions,” he said, rummaging for something in another pocket, “but if it’s something urgent or you get stuck in voicemail more than three times, you should call,” he paused, clicking a pen and scribbling on a corner to see if it had ink, “This… num...ber…” he finished writing the number on the flipside of the card and handed it to Bruce.

“Thanks,” he said, but Jonathan was already walking briskly to the exit, tucking his pen back into his breast pocket.

Bruce was left to contemplate his fruit punch for the rest of the evening.

  


 

* * *

 

  


Bruce leaned backward in his roller-chair, bored out of his mind.  Usually it wasn’t this quiet in East End Public.  Was it a holiday?  He knew that the gangs usually quieted down during the holidays, especially for the big ones like Christmas and Thanksgiving, when there was a truce between most of the major mobs.

 _At least it means no one’s getting hurt,_ Bruce thought.  Comforting as the thought was, it didn’t stop him from being bored.

As if the universe had heard him, the phone rang.

He picked it up with quick hands.  “What’s up?” he asked, pulling himself forward to lean on the desk.  He nodded.  “Be right over.  See you soon.”

The phone clacked back onto its charging station, and Bruce swept out of the room, swinging on his labcoat, pulling the door closed behind him.

  
  


“Damn,” Bruce cursed under his breath.  “Damnity-damn-damn.”  The scrawny kid lay on the operating table, skinny as a wire.  “And he didn’t have anything to eat beforehand?”

His fellow doctor shook their head.  They both looked like the stereotypical surgeons, clad all in white with rubber gloves and face masks that made it hard to tell them apart.  

They began to pump the patient’s stomach, while Bruce tried very hard to pay attention.  He hated when patients overdosed.  It was because of the gangs.  They were the ones flooding the lower city with drugs and taking advantage of people who had no other escape.  “Dammit,” he hissed once the procedure was over.  

He walked to another tube and attached a bag of dark powder, active charcoal, to it.  Almost immediately, the charcoal began trickling through it and into the mouth and stomach of the unconscious teen.  The charcoal would soak up what was left of the drug and would be passed later.

Bruce hated these kinds of procedures.  Sure, he could mop up the inside of someone’s stomach, but there was no way of telling if they’d cleaned it all up, that everything was OK.  He could set a broken bone correctly.  He knew at a glance what it was supposed to look like when it was healthy, but this was an entirely different sort of unhealthy.

“You can go now,” Bruce told his partner.  “I sometimes stay until the patient’s woken up, just to make sure, and today’s not a busy day anyway. Plus,” he added, “someone’s gonna have to do the paperwork for this and I know you hate it, so go have some coffee while I do it.”

The other doctor laughed.  “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks Bruce, you’re great,” the surgeon said, giving Bruce a thumbs up before leaving.

Bruce took off his gloves, washed his hands, then put on another pair of gloves and took out a pen and took a clipboard with forms off of the equipment table.  He began to mechanically fill out the form.  Everything went smoothly until Bruce spotted something on the victim’s upper leg.  Their thighs were lightly striped with straight, thin, raised scars.

_No way that was an accident._

He checked the victim’s wrists.  Nothing.  He rifled through the medical forms and double checked the patient’s information.  

It clicked.  

  


“Damn it all,” Bruce spat, as he was sent straight to voicemail.

“I’m sorry, but,” said a female voice, “Doctor Jonathan Crane,” came Crane’s cynical one, “is not available,” finished the woman.  “Please leave a message at-”

But Bruce was already dialing the other number, the one Crane had left on the back of his business card.

There were three long tones.  “C’mon, c’mon…” Bruce said between gritted teeth.

  


Doctor Jonathan Crane was washing his hands in an operating room in Arkham Asylum.  Something vibrated in his pocket.

Jonathan sighed.  He’d been hoping for a stress-free day.  There hadn’t been much going on today, leaving him free to conduct his own experiments for once.  But no.  Work called, as usual, and whoever was calling had his… _other_ work phone.  

He’d really have to put an end to Falcone or whichever of his underlings was handing out his phone number, he reminded himself as the unknown number flashed across his cellphone’s screen.  He tapped _answer_.

“Jonathan Crane,” he said blandly, resting the phone between his right shoulder and ear.  He’d learned a long time ago that these sorts of experiments couldn’t be done with one hand.  “Who is this?” he demanded coldly.

“Uh, Bruce Wayne.”

“Oh.”  Jonathan paused, looking back at the unconscious man tied down to the operating table.  “What is it, Bruce?” he said, squatting down and opening the cupboard under the sink and pulling out a clean white cloth.

“ _Some kid tried to suicide by OD-ing and I don’t know how to deal with it when he wakes up.”_

“Tell me why you think it’s suicide,” said Jonathan.  Of course it would be Bruce.  Of course it would be suicide.  He was seriously tempted to hang up… but no.  This was Wayne he was dealing with.  He had to play it smart.  He had to be patient.

“ _There were lacerations on his upper thighs and he hadn’t had anything to eat before overdosing, meaning that the drug would move quicker through his system.”_

“Not on the wrists?” Jonathan observed, walking over to the limp figure on the operating table.

“ _No, but he wrote on his forms that he’s on the volleyball team, so changing into uniform would be difficult without anyone noticing that he was cutting himself._ ”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, and began to gag the unconscious man.  It wouldn’t do for Bruce to hear anything strange over the telephone, would it?  “Well, drive him over when you’re free,” he said, screwing on the needle of a syringe.  There was bound to be some useless intern lounging around somewhere who could deal with Bruce’s patient.

“ _Today’s not been very busy, so I’ll be right over,”_ Bruce said.

Jonathan cut the call and tossed the phone onto the tabletop next to the sink.  It seemed the gag wouldn’t be necessary at all.  He’d hoped Bruce would be busy, but it seemed that the world was just not going his way today.

“Really, Bruce Wayne, you are just as big an annoyance as your father,” he said dryly.  

He glanced at the clock that hung above the door.  Rush hour.  Wonderful, Wayne wouldn’t arrive for at least half an hour, he thought while examining the man’s forearm to find a vein.  That was some consolation at least.

He sighed as he injected the man with fear toxin.  Two milliliters.  Now, all that remained was to wait and see.

He stood up straight and went back to the sink, where he took pen and paper from a drawer.  

Crane had long since perfected the fear toxin as an aerosol, if one could truly ‘perfect’ such a beautiful thing, but he’d found that injections were less conspicuous during work hours.

“Two milliliters,” he mused, “Not enough to completely break you, I’m afraid,” he said, leaning in close to the patient’s face, “but enough to let me have a little fun when you wake up.”  His lips parted, and he closed his eyes, as if savouring the whimpers that now filled the room.  He’d give the serum five minutes to flood the man’s system, then.... then Jonathan Crane would play on his fears like the best musician that ever lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! I finally finished this chapter, so yahooooo :P  
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter, there is definitely more to come, and I wish you a very good day!
> 
> I do not lay claim to any aspects of this work that belong to the creators of the Batman franchise. I only own the words I write and the original aspects of the fic.


	3. BG-3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry I haven't updated in *quite* a while- I've been trying to wrap up another fic so that I'm not juggling 29456 unfinished ones, you know what I mean :'D Anyway, here's my Christmas present to you (if you don't celebrate Christmas, this is a belated birthday gift)
> 
> Enjoy :)
> 
> (Oh and by the way, the opinions expressed here are just the characters, not me.)

The boy was fine (just the run-of-the-mill depression that could be dealt with with therapy sessions and pills).  Jonathan sent him downstairs to where an intern would take his contact information, and listen to his life story.

Then Bruce walked in.  Jonathan tried not to look surprised.  He hadn't expected him to stay.

“You must be one great psychiatrist,” Bruce said.  “The kid looked like he was ready to jump over the moon.”

Jonathan smiled faintly.  “I just showed him that there are people who understand what he's going through,” he said quietly, lounging back in his chair.  “Please, sit.” He indicated the chair in front of his desk.

Bruce sat, and as he did he admired the room.

This wasn't your typical doctor’s office.  It looked like a comfy living room, with a sofa and coffee table near the front and a desk at the back.

The coffee table wasn't even laid with the typical magazines and children’s books often found at offices.  It was cleared, save for a few empty china glasses that, judging by the smell, had held coffee.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Wayne?” Jonathan said.

“Bruce.”

Jonathan found his mouth quirking at the sides.  Bruce’s stubbornness was like a child's.  “What can I do for you, Bruce?” he asked in the exact same tone of voice.

“Not much.  I'd just like to thank you for helping.”  

Bruce made to stand up but before he could Jonathan asked, “Did your father send you?”

Bruce looked back at the doctor.  His eyes were as cold and hard as ice.  

“No, what makes you say that?” he asked, trying to ignore the way Jonathan’s eyes seemed to see right through him.

“Your father and I, as I'm sure you've heard, do not have the best working relationship.”

“He told me he had to cut your annual funding, or something similar,” Bruce said evasively.

Jonathan wet his lips, still looking straight into Bruce's eyes.  “Something of that colour,” he said.

Bruce found his eyes drawn to Jonathan’s adam’s apple.

“Look,” he said, averting his eyes, “my dad didn't send me here.  I'm here because one of my patients needed your help and you've probably just saved his life.”  Bruce took a breath.  “And I'm here to say thank you.”

“You're welcome.”  That voice, Bruce thought, it was the voice of someone who would dangle a joke in front of you and withhold the punchline just to amuse himself.  

Bruce thought for a moment before thinking of what to say next.  “So…” he began, “Been having a slow day?” he asked.

Jonathan nodded.  “I have nothing lined up until tonight.”

In response to Bruce's confused look, Jonathan continued, “I'm the one who looks after the most troublesome patients when everyone’s gone to sleep.  Ever since I was promoted, I rarely get called in for emergencies anymore.”

“Troublesome?” Bruce asked.  Jonathan almost laughed.  Bruce seemed so innocent, Jonathan had to remind himself that the other doctor had probably seen his fair share of Gotham’s horrors.

“Would you like to come see?” Jonathan asked, smiling for the first time.

Bruce didn't know what made him say it.  Maybe it was the way Jonathan’s hair caught the light, or the way his eyes gleamed behind those glasses.  Maybe if was the way he was lounged in his chair, in a fine suit and tie.  Bruce admitted that it was probably the way Jonathan smiled at him.  

“Sure,” he said, for an instant not caring that he hated seeing people who he couldn't fix, whose pain he couldn't see.

Jonathan's eyes seemed to brighten, and he stood up, pushing his rolling chair behind him.

“Shall we?” he asked, holding the door for Bruce.

 

Jonathan led him down several sets of stairs.  Bruce glanced through each door as they descended, and remarked that, as they went down, the hallways degraded from a hotel-level of comfort to the secure bareness of prison.

They were on a quite low floor, the third below ground level, the sign on the door indicated.

“Why didn't we take the elevator?” Bruce asked.

Jonathan shrugged.  “It smells.”

Bruce laughed as Jonathan fumbled the keys in the lock.  When he opened the door, Bruce walked through first and stared.

The conditions in the Asylum were much better than most of Gotham’s prisons, with facilities and plain beds in the cells.

Bruce could not help but think of them as cells as they walked past.  There were no bars, but he and the patients were separated by thick sheets of glass.

“Bulletproof,” Jonathan said, confirming Bruce's suspicions.

The inmates were often tied down to their beds, although there were a few that just sat in corners of their padded cells wearing straight jackets.

Jonathan walked up to one of these cells and tapped in a passcode on the control panel beside the door that he would use to get in.  

The door popped open and Jonathan stepped inside, flipping on the intercom and motioning for Bruce to stay behind.

He closed the door.  “She likes it when I come in alone,” he explained, his voice crackling with static over the intercom.

Bruce glanced at the small woman huddled in the corner, next to the bed.  She was thin and twitchy, peering Jonathan up and down as he approached and sat down on top of the covers.

“Did the field man visit you today?” Jonathan asked innocently.

The woman wailed.

Jonathan took off his glasses.  “Just take deep breaths.  It'll be over soon,” he whispered.

Bruce heard everything over the intercom.  It was frightening but he couldn't seem to look away.

“If I breathe in the scarecrow will find me,” she whimpered, pulling at her bed for support.  “He’ll take my bed…”

“You can always ask to sleep somewhere else,” Jonathan said softly, reaching out.

She pulled his hand over and started to touch his hands as if she'd never felt one before.

“Now I'm going to leave,” Jonathan said.

She began wailing.  “He comes when you go!” she screamed.  

Jonathan was already halfway to the door.  She pulled herself toward him on frail hands.  “The scarecrow!” she screeched.  

Jonathan turned, his hand on the door handle.  “Don't worry,” he said, “I'll be back tonight.”

Then he slipped out, closing the door behind him and slipping his glasses back on.  

Inside, the woman shieked and clapped her hands to her eyes, muttering, “Scarecrow” over and over.

Jonathan looked up, rubbing at his temple with a thin finger.  His expression was stretched thin and pained.

“What's scarecrow?” Bruce asked.

“A focal point of her fears.  It's as if this scarecrow is the root of all of them, so whenever she gets scared-”

“She associates it with the scarecrow and becomes even more scared since it activates all her other fears,” Bruce realized with a nod.

Jonathan let out a breath that could have been a laugh.  “You know Bruce, you're not half as dimwitted as I've been made to believe.”

Bruce didn't know if that was a compliment or not.

“That was supposed to be a compliment,” Jonathan said quietly.

Bruce laughed, then remembered where he was.  “Thank you,” he said.

Jonathan showed him more around the corridor, although he didn't go into any of the cells.

After about half an hour of talking about medical procedures and then stories about their patients (which they both informed the other that they would be fired if anyone knew they'd spoken about them), Jonathan changed the subject.

“Do you want to go get a cup of coffee?” he asked.  He'd told himself it was solely to get into Thomas Wayne’s good books, but Jonathan had worked as a psychiatrist long enough to know that he was lying to himself.  

Bruce, God forbid the words actually come out of his mouth, was actually good company.  Bruce had big plans, somewhat like Jonathan’s own, but more altruistic.

And, Jonathan was surprised that he liked the lines of Bruce.  The first time he'd seen him, Jonathan had dismissed Bruce as a thick, muscled doctor, whose fingers were too clumsy to handle an anesthetic needle.

However, the more he looked, the more Jonathan realized that he'd been wrong.  Bruce wasn’t a hulking man at all.  But nor was he like Jonathan, a thin stick man.  

To Jonathan's greatest annoyance of all, he kept on noticing how delicate Bruce's face was.  He'd thought it was a square thing that women found attractive, but it was leaner than he'd thought.

All in all, the longer Jonathan looked, the more he liked what he saw.  Not enough to justify developing _feelings_ for Bruce, but enough to treat him to coffee.

Bruce blinked.  “Sure,” he said.  “We can take my car.”

Oh.  Bruce thought he'd meant get coffee outside.  At a coffee shop.  Jonathan briefly entertained the idea of suggesting they use the coffee machine in his office, but then the disapproving face of Thomas Wayne flashed before his eyes.

Jonathan nodded.  Bruce probably drove an expensive prototype model car that could go from zero to ninety in under ten seconds.

It turned out that Bruce drove a plain Ferrarri.  A flashy, sleek, black thing that made loud revving sounds whenever Bruce stepped on the gas.

Jonathan hated it.  Bruce really was a playboy after all.  He nearly rolled his eyes, but then he remembered that Bruce was right beside him.

Jonathan had no idea where they were going.  Somewhere classy beyond imagination, he supposed.  

His suspicions were confirmed when they reached the diamond, the neighborhood where ninety percent of all the money in Gotham is at any given point in time.

Bruce drove into an underground parking lot and they both stepped out.

“This was not the coffee shop I had in mind,” Jonathan said, carefully stepping out of the car.

Bruce was glad the parking lot was reasonably dark because he blushed.  “Well it doesn't matter, since this is my treat,” he said awkwardly.

Jonathan came to stand beside him.  “That was not what I had in mind either,” he said.

Bruce led him to the elevator and they rode up to “the top floor Bruce?  Really?” where the doors opened up to “A rooftop café.  What a surprise.”

It looked like they'd stepped out into Italy.  The browning ceramic tiles spread across the floor in no particular pattern, while emerald green vines twisted up and around wooden poles on which were cream and tomato red parasols.  The small tables, _for two_ , Jonathan noted with an internal groan, were made of aged wood.

“You know,” Jonathan said, turning to Bruce, “when I said coffee, I meant the coffee machine in my office.”

Jonathan was greatly amused when Bruce stammered, “O-oh.”

Jonathan gazed around.  “But the view _is_ rather nice,” he admitted.  The Gotham cityscape was indeed pleasant.  A couple of skyscrapers made a curious outline against the sky that was just about to go a faint purple from the sunset, and the wind blew through Jonathan’s hair in a way he fancied.

A waiter in formal attire showed them to a seat by the edge of the building, where-

“Bruce, why did you bring me to a restaurant?” Jonathan asked dryly, flipping through the menu.

“I forgot that it's a restaurant at night,” Bruce groaned.  “When I come here during the day it's a coffee shop, I swear.”

Jonathan closed his eyes and smiled a small smile as if Bruce was trying his patience.  “Don't insult me,” he said in his light voice, “Remember,” he continued, “I'm a psychiatrist.  You can’t lie to me.”

Jonathan liked it when he saw Bruce was squirming in his seat.  “Now.  While you order whatever is good on this menu, what were you hoping to discuss over ‘coffee’?”

“Well, my father.”

Jonathan’s eyes bored right into Bruce’s and he looked away.  

“What about him?” Jonathan asked, pronouncing each syllable, while managing to keep his voice casual.

“He seems to think Arkham is, well,” Bruce paused.

Jonathan vaguely wondered if Bruce was brave enough to say-

“Corrupt.”

Jonathan blinked.  “I can assure you that it isn't,” he lied, icy eyes betraying nothing.

“I believe you have the people's best interests at heart, but I'm not sure how to convince my father,” Bruce said.

Jonathan wanted to laugh.  He didn't.  “Believe me, if he could be convinced, then I would have already changed his mind.”

Bruce itched at his chin.

“What are you thinking?” Jonathan asked.  He'd been a therapist long enough to know when something was biting.

Bruce gave a little laugh.  “My friend wrote a report about Arkham.  You may have heard of her…” he said, “Rachel Dawes.”

Jonathan felt a swell of bubbling toxic annoyance rise up in his throat.  “Ah yes.  I know her,” he said with a slight smile.   _A nosy prosecutor’s assistant who can't control herself,_ he thought.

“Well, I just don't know how she could think so badly of everyone.”

Jonathan could tell Bruce was trying to say: ‘I just don't know how she could think so badly of _you_.’

 _Maybe because you think too well of everyone_ , Jonathan thought sarcastically.  “We met recently actually,” he said, then chuckled, “At an admissions dispute case.  I'm afraid I rather mucked up her first impression of me.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.  “What happened?”

“I detest it when people dismiss mental illness as fake.” The lie passed through Jonathan’s lips easily.  “And Miss Dawes was very… forward with her distrust of me.”

Bruce rested his elbows on the table.  “I'm sure I could get Rachel to come talk things over with you,” he said, brows furrowed in concern, “She's really not that bad.”

Jonathan shrugged with a small smile.  “Actually,” he said, “that would be great.”   _So that I can finally deal with her_.

 

Bruce and Jonathan had an enjoyable dinner on the rooftop.  Bruce had recommended the fish to Jonathan, while he'd taken a plate of pasta with a sauce that had too many vowels for him to pronounce correctly.  In short, Jonathan was very amused by Bruce trying to pronounce ‘sugo all’amatriciana’ while Bruce received immense pleasure by watching Jonathan spit out tiny fish bones onto a side plate.

 

As they took the elevator back down to the lobby, Jonathan turned to Bruce.  “Are you busy tomorrow?” he asked.  

Bruce hung his head sadly.  “I'm afraid so.  There are a few people coming in for urgent surgery, and who knows how many more will come for emergency care.  Gotham’s pretty rough,” he added dejectedly.

Jonathan nodded.  “If people would stop fighting, that would make a world of difference,” he chuckled.  “Bruce, do you…” he paused.  “Never mind.”

“What's on your mind?” Bruce asked.  

Jonathan shook his head.  “I forgot what I was going to ask,” he lied.

Bruce laughed.  “Well, that's what wine does to you.”  He turned to Jonathan, as if puzzled.  Then he leaned against the glass elevator wall.  “The food was nice though, wasn't it?”

Jonathan laughed genuinely.  “It beats sandwiches and canned soup for dinner.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.  “Do you eat that a lot?”

Jonathan shrugged.  “I'm a busy man, Bruce.  Along with running the Asylum, I also have several side-projects I'm working on with a foreign firm.  I often don't have time to go out.”  Jonathan glanced at Bruce's guilt stricken face and hurried on, “and I do like sandwiches and soup.  They taste good.”

Bruce still looked ashamed from pulling him away from his work, so Jonathan added, “When we’re free again, I'll have you over for soup and sandwiches.”

That seemed to brighten Bruce's mood.  Jonathan wondered why he had just done that.  He didn't even _like_ Bruce Wayne.  He'd been playing along to garner favor with his father, for crying out loud.

Well it wasn't like inviting Bruce was going to hurt his reputation, Jonathan reasoned.

 

Bruce drove Jonathan back to the Asylum faster than the bespectacled man would have liked.  After pulling up beside the tall gates, Bruce remarked, “Looks like a haunted house.”

Crane laughed.  “Well that's where all the scariest things go, and what's scarier than the human mind?”

Bruce waved and drove away, leaving Jonathan to make his way back to his office.

Jonathan didn't actually go to his office.  He went downstairs, past BG-3 to the very bottom level.

The bottom floor was dark, even with most of the lights on.  It felt like the perfect place for moss to grow and the perfect home for anything that loved the damp, although Jonathan always kept it completely sanitary and clean for his experiments.

Through an open pipe, Jonathan saw stinking water rushing past, flowing through all of Gotham city.  Jonathan walked over to reseal the hatch.  

Other than the hiss of water, it was completely silent.  Jonathan didn't trust any other scientists to help with the development of his fear toxin- it was a one man job.  

The only people who knew that the below-ground-five floor wasn't just a staff-only floor were a few of Falcone’s thugs, most of which were now ensconced in the Asylum anyway.  

Jonathan was a private man.

He walked over to the lab table, which he had kept completely sterile despite the disgusting sewage hole on the opposite side of the room, and he pulled out what seemed to be a burlap sack from a drawer along with a blank aerosol can and a sterilized syringe.

Carefully placing his glasses on the table, Jonathan pulled the sack over his head, knowing how stupid it looked and not caring in the slightest.  Inside the sack there was a clear mask with a thick tube rubbing down to an air purifier that could be hung on a belt.

After adjusting the straps, Jonathan felt ready to give the mask another test run.  He stood up, holding the lab desk for support.  He really had to cut better eyeholes in this thing, he thought.  Crane flicked the power switch on the air purifier.

He sprayed the contents of the aerosol can into the air and walked through it like a teenager walks into a cloying cloud of perfume.

He leaned over the desk to reach for a notepad and pen.

Jonathan noted that he was fine for the first two minutes.  Then he thought he could hear something in the corner.  He turned slowly.  He really didn't want to have to murder the janitor.

There was nothing there.

Something moved just beyond his vision, he was sure of it.  Jonathan walked nervously to the end of the room to turn on another set of lights.  His heart was thudding painfully against his rib cage.  The lights were on, and Jonathan turned around.  

He cursed the mask- he could barely see out of it.  Oh.  That was it, he realized.

Jonathan strode angrily back to the table and picked up the syringe.  He flicked it with a finger, watching the clear liquid swirl around.  Then he injected himself swiftly with the fear toxin antidote.  

It hit him almost immediately.  The faint whispering he hadn't noticed until it was gone receded, and some of the darkness slowly vanished from the corners of his eyes.

Jonathan rubbed his temples through the sack.  The ventilation system was not as good as he’d thought after all.  He would have to make technical adjustments before he moved on to more potent toxins.

He sighed and sat down in his rolling chair, waiting for the toxin to disperse with the syringe of antidote ready.

Jonathan Crane was tired.  His thoughts roamed around, picking at little bright spots in the day and eventually coming to rest on none other than Bruce Wayne.  

 

“Master Bruce,” came Alfred’s voice from beyond the thick oak door to the Wayne's basement.  “There are a few people upstairs that are here to meet you.  An old teacher of yours perhaps?”

Bruce's eyes lit up and he spun his chairs away from his monitors.  Opening the door, Alfred could see the feed from a traffic camera on one of them.  “Tall.  British type.  Says he met you during your gap year and then again after uni?”  Alfred pushed the door all the way open.  “A Henri, I believe.”

“Ducard?  Henri _Ducard_?” Bruce stood up excitedly.  He rushed to the entrance hall, Alfred following right behind him.  

A tall, well built man in a dark suit was waiting for them.  He had short light-brown hair with a small little moustache that made him look distantly angry, but the smile lines around his eyes said otherwise.

“Ducard!” Bruce called.  “It’s been what- two years?  How’s the school going?”

Henri Ducard enveloped Bruce in a hearty hug.  “Fine, fine.  The students aren’t as good as you were of course, but they’re just as motivated.”  He laughed.  “How about you?  Put any of the skills I taught you to good use?”

Bruce shook his head sadly.  “I decided to become a doctor.  Dad can’t practice, and I know how much it means to him that someone’s out there helping people.”

Ducard shrugged.  “There’s more than one way to help Gotham, Bruce.”

They stood in silence for a moment, then Bruce indicated the living room.  “But come, you’ve gotta tell me why you’re in Gotham.”

Bruce and Ducard chatted idly for several hours.  Ducard had already met Martha and Thomas but seemed delighted to see them again.  Apparently, the martial arts master was here to reduce crime and corruption in the city, although Bruce wasn’t sure how.  Eventually, Ducard admitted to working with a local pharmacologist, probably to produce some new medicine, although what a fighter from the east wanted with something like that, Bruce had no idea.  Most of the time however, was spent talking about Bruce.  It seemed that Ducard really wanted Bruce to work with him and his school on their project, whatever it really was.

“I can’t stay in Gotham all year ‘round, Bruce.  It would be ideal if we had someone here who we could rely on, especially in the months to come,” Ducard had said.  

Long after Ducard had left, Bruce still recalled his words.  Four years ago, he’d taken up Ducard’s offer to train at his martial arts school in Bhutan.  He’d risen through the ranks quickly, but had had to return to Gotham before he could complete the final test- his father had had a stroke.  

Bruce shivered as he undressed for bed.  Ducard’s training hadn’t seemed odd while he was at the school, but afterward, whenever he would mention some of the more life-threatening experiences, people would always look at him as if he’d just tried jumping off a building just to see how many bones he could break.  Bruce learned early on not to mention it to anyone else.  

However, the skills he’d learned under the personal tutelage of Henri Ducard were invaluable.  For one, if anyone tried shooting his parents again, their hands wouldn’t make it to their gun in time to prevent themselves being knocked out.

Ducard’s other comment did intrigue him.  Maybe he _could_ make a bigger difference with those skills.  Instead of a doctor, he’d be a… vigilante.  Bruce smirked, then frowned.  

_It’s not like the police do their jobs anyway._

Bruce went to sleep, his mind bubbling with possibilities.  

 _Maybe_ , he thought.   _Maybe_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wHhHOOOp well things are picking up in Gotham, the plot for one thing, the iffy-shippy thingies and the AU backstory for another. Hope you *finger guns* liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not tagging any relationships in this fic, but that doesn't mean there aren't any.  
> ;)


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